


Happily Corrected

by SuperImposed



Series: Kinkfills: Dark Non-sexual Edition [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Body Modification, Clinical Depression, Forced Surgery, Gen, Kinkfill, Neutering, Surgery, Surgery-Inflicted Depression, Unwilling/Underaged Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/SuperImposed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On Beforus, Kankri's mutation is classified as 'heritable and deleterious', and he is classified as 'unfit for procreation'. So Beforan authorities make sure it's not an issue. Kankri's opinion on the matter is deemed 'unimportant'.</p><p>I'm fine with any level of awful you wanna go with here from like simple hormonal/birth-control things to actual surgery/neutering to oh sweet mother of fuck they cut his actual bulge off.</p><p>Gurohorror or porny or introspective or whatever are fine, as are any and all pairing configurations. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Corrected

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kinkmeme: http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39716.html?thread=44585764#cmt44585764  
> References this headcanon: http://snarp.tumblr.com/post/65490054264/kankri-is-a-creep-with-no-redeeming-qualities-and-if
> 
> (The depression thing was actually accidental.)

It’s only right.

Of course, you don’t understand that at the time. Then, you only knew pain, and fear, and anger.

Only sweeps of ingrained survival instinct and cell-deep terror prevented you from biting the wrists of the drones who strapped you down, or swearing and screaming at the adults who very calmly put the knives to you. The adults who drew sample after sample of wrong, wrong blood from your writhing body, who hemmed and hawed and made small talk as they dumped your meat in a tray for further examination. By the time your control broke enough to yowl at them, the pain overcame and you blacked out.

What little you remember of the rest of the surgeonbutchery is fragmented: a red-drenched scalpel, your plates being fused back together, and the drones dumping you back in your hive, surprisingly gentle.

The weeks after were constant daymares, fever pain wracking you to the horns (still tender after samples had been shaved away) and wishing that you could just die and be done with it. The care drone shoved protein lumps into your maw until you could weakly grasp the sustenance yourself. Nights later, you finally dragged yourself into the hottest bath you could draw, only to scream as the slime invaded your ruined thorax.

When you finally adjusted, of course, everything was wonderful.

There was no anger to you. There was hardly any fear - you searched anew for a culler out of only a vague desire to never go through that again. You failed, of course, as you had the sweeps before - special cases were monitored and nurtured solely by the Empire itself.

Everything was fine, sickly-sweet and empty, until your second pupation.

You had spent your sixth sweep only vaguely aware of clutchmates’ commentary - mainly boasting at how good the metamorphosis had been to them. If they were to be believed, every troll your age had doubled in muscle mass and horn size overday.

It didn’t really matter to you until you were nearly seven, and realized that once again, you had been left behind. Two weeks after that epiphany, the adults came back.

You walked calmly into the preparatory block this time, happily ignoring the part of your thinkpan that was occupied only with screaming, as if its volume could somehow affect the proceedings.

This time was both better and worse. The adults weighed and measured you again (“extremely underdeveloped,” they clucked, “despite the boosted feed”), and then injected serums under your still-soft plates.

It didn’t take long for the change to begin. Instead of a proper webbing, sticky protein slipped from you, pooling uselessly on the floor. More injections were administered as you began to itch, from horns to teeth to organs. True silk burst forth just in time, wrapping you in a chrysalis that reeked of chemicals.

Your clutchmates all asserted that they had fallen unconscious during the transformation, waking with only lingering pain, to burst forth from the hardened shell. You were not half so lucky.

The few times you could think clearly, you wondered if the adults could hear you through the chrysalis, if they took the measure of your suffering. Even as your body warped and ripped around your scarred-over plates, though, a part of you lay separate, drawing further and further away until your mind and body had only the most tenuous of connections. When the adults cut away the still half-soft cocoon, while you wept and curled around your misshapen abdomen, that gulf remained. When the drones far-too-carefully deposited you on your entry block step, that gulf remained.

You did not grow to match your fellows. Your horns stayed soft and dull and short, still far too sensitive. Your whole body was oversensitized, a sharp contrast to your mind. You quickly learned that everything hurt, even the wind on your still-not-rigid carapace, even food being forced down your protein chute.

Worst of all was the presence of other trolls. Their unidentifiably-maddening scents, the warm and cool exhaust from their vascular systems, their talons and digits tracing your sign and horns. Even their eyes - _especially_ their eyes - hurt, measuring you and finding you lacking once more.

You could not fight them off, make them leave you be, with your grub claws and egg horns and unfanged jaws, so you found another way. You used your mouth to blabber and pry and rip flesh only metaphorically. You found soft points, and pressed them to your advantage. You slowly saw the prides and fears and guilts of them (often wrapped up into one tangled ball, because since when have trolls been simple and direct?), and had been shocked that the vaunted coolbloods were just as flawed as your fellows; but that was yet another advantage, stacking needs on top of shouldn’t-wants and repulsions. You slowly assembled a fortress of of trolls who needed but didn’t like, and rarely approached.

You were safe. Safety was enough.

And then the game.

You never thought Meenah’s mindless plots would have provided such relief, but life was full of surprises, death being only one. This surprise is a happy one - now you need never deal with an adult pupation, adult actions and explaining the lack thereof. All you need to do now is avoid the ever-helpful Aranea, and she surprisingly returns the courtesy. All you need to do now is keep doing what you’ve been doing, and everything will still be fine.

You can’t hate, but your descendant/ancestor evokes the closest you can manage - envy, jealousy, sorrow, disgust. HE’S complaining? His horns are hard and almost sharp, his exoskeleton is smooth and unmottled gray, his claws have ripping edges. He still has feelings.

If you needed correction, surely he did. It’s only right, after all, to keep the strong from being corrupted. You were wrong and sick until the sickness was cut out of you, and he cannot be different.

He can’t.

He _can’t_.


End file.
